Toy Soldiers
by Crumpled Piece Of Paper
Summary: My Secret Santa gift to Goosey...Music is the only thing that makes sense anymore...Sorta Wilsoncentric.


Merry Christmas Goosey! X3 I hope you like this, despite its short-ness and depressing-ness.

_"Music is the only thing that makes sense anymore..."_

It was dark and very quiet. But not in the way that made you feel like you were safe and protected. It wasn't a warm blanket of dark; but rather an eerie blankness, a hole, something wrong and empty.

It wasn't exactly the ideal place for one to be spending Christmas Eve, and yet...here he was.

He hadn't taken a step passed the doorway, and still clutched his coat to him instead of hanging it up on the rack or just tossing it on the ground like he normally did entering this place.

Things had changed so drastically since he was able to do those things.

Finally he took a halting step foreword. Afraid he'd stop moving and be stuck all over again, he repeated the action with the other leg, successfully (if you wanted to call it that) moving himself into the dark apartment and away from the door; which, he absently noticed, he hadn't shut behind him.

No use going back for it now, there wasn't enough to keep him from just walking back through it and leaving this crushing, empty place behind for another few years.

Somewhere between the doorway and his newfound place behind the sofa, his coat had fallen to the floor, but he didn't notice, too busy running his fingers along the loved leather back of the sofa.

There were so many memories hidden in it's fibers that it was nearly painful to the touch.

And yet he couldn't draw his aching fingers away...

_"Don't you have a wife of some form waiting up for you at home?"_

Wilson shook his head slowly from side to side, a drunken grin sliding easily out over his face. "Nah, Sh-she won't care. Prolly at her parents place anyway." He giggled with a snort before saying, "I hate her parents. She knows it, too...I think."

For some reason this comment was enough to send both men into raucous bouts of laughter, drinks forgotten and spilling in their hands with the movements.

The sounds of their drunken joy echoed in the vast empty of the room and with a painful jolt his fingers flinched away from the sofa, as if he'd been shocked.

His dark eyes wouldn't leave his shaking fingertips, afraid of what else he'd remember if he looked away.

That was last Christmas...two years ago, maybe, but still last Christmas for him.

It'll always be last Christmas...because it's still so fresh in his mind...still right _there_ in his memories, unwilling to part.

Like a fixated spirit.

He shivered at the thought, finally looking about the room, as if to prove to himself that there were no misanthropic spirits haunting the shadowed corners of the apartment.

As he looked, he automatically took in the furniture, cold and empty, but still arranged exactly as they had been for the past two years, maybe more, knowing H...

One piece of furniture stood out more than anything else in the room.

It was hard to miss, really...

Placed by the window the piano lay silent and cold, as still and lifeless as the rest of the room under the thin beams filtering their way in through the moth-eaten curtains. The light traced delicately around the piano's dusty, but otherwise lovingly cared for surface, sparkling softly with the dust particles in the air.

It was a beautiful, gut-wrenching sight.

And it was almost enough to make him flee, to run out of this horrible, forgotten place once and for all. He wasn't sure if he could do this anymore; his conscience and bravery were oozing out of him before his eyes. Too much to take in, still too soon, still too fresh.

He couldn't breathe.

It wasn't right, it wasn't _real_...

There was no way.

Somewhere along the line he'd slipped up beside the surreal instrument, his hand shaking just a few centimeters above it's dusty, frozen surface.

Unbidden, gentle, lingering, and equally surreal notes began floating through the empty expanse of the apartment. He didn't recognize the tune, but at the same time it was so very familiar.

Light, whispering notes, steadily gaining clarity as his mind grasped at them filled his senses. A loving song, uplifting really…but he had no idea why he was hearing it.

He had never learned how to play the piano, and yet he could recall what keys were being played, if only because a pair of worn, rugged hands were playing them.

One drop unsettled the dusty surface. The music peaked in his mind and all around him, making the tiny explosion of glossy black amidst the sea of dust seem so much more powerful.

It didn't take long for more drops to follow, each hitting the surface of the piano in time to a loud, beautifully strong note, each clearing away the dust, letting it's true colors shine through.

Gods it'd been so long, too long since he'd just let himself _feel_...he hadn't really, truly cried about this…. He hadn't allowed himself. Too proud.

Too afraid.

Oh sure one or two tears had escaped him, but their brief treks down his cheeks could not measure up to the constant music of so many drops.

It felt wonderful, horrible, so unreal...

Eventually the music his mind created, for surely it could have come from no other place...faded, but he couldn't stop the waves of grief and massive relief both weighing and freeing his chest, or the tears that now continuously dotted the white and black run of keys.

He could no longer let himself _not feel_.

He'd thought that the last person to bring music here had long since died, faded away…

….and in some ways, he had...

But Wilson couldn't play piano.

He had no idea what sounds the many keys could make, much less how to put them together into a piece so haunting it drew up the grief he'd so long suppressed.

He stared at the piano and his shaking fingertips hovering a few centimeters above the keys, never having touched them. He stared because he was too afraid of what he may see if he looked up.

_Never-ending Blue..._

A gentle knock on the open door brought him hastily back to reality.

He wasn't alone anymore.

Cuddy stood solemnly, nervously in the doorway, her arms crossed, as if protecting herself from the cold, empty atmosphere of the apartment. Wilson realized he hadn't turned any lights on.

"They're here..." She said looking a little uncomfortable, "Well...they've actually been here for a while, but, I thought that maybe...you...um..." Cuddy smiled sadly with a shrug.

Wilson understood. "Thanks..." He said, looking back at the piano and falling silent. It was empty again, just a piece of furniture...but something warm lingered just beneath his hovering hands...something familiar.

"...Um, they're ready to start, have been, actually." She said, taking a few steps into the apartment. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her bend and pick something up.

Oh, his jacket. Right.

Wilson pried himself away from the piano bench, stumbling a bit as he tried not to touch the actual piano.

It wasn't right; it wasn't his, it never was.

He walked over to her, at the last moment remembering his eyes, furiously wiping at them as he approached her, despite the fact he knew it was a futile effort.

As she handed him his jacket Cuddy looked up at him, worried. "Are you sure you want to do this?" She asked, placing a hand on his arm, "I'm positive there's enough put away to buy the place...you don't have to-"

She stopped, noticing that he was shaking his head and removed her hand.

Wilson smiled, softly, sadly, and in his mind a tiny tune rejoiced. "It's alright, it's okay...We both know it's time to move on...there's a lot of people who can use this stuff..."

Wilson paused, rubbing the back of his neck, "I was wondering though...about the piano?"

"An elementary school..." Cuddy said slowly, her eyes flicking back and forth across his face, searching. A knowing glint came to her eye when she said: "But if you...? You can, you know. It is yours."

Wilson nodded, appreciative, but unwilling to correct her when she said it was his. It wasn't. It never was. Still wasn't. "Yeah...thanks."

Cuddy smiled and patted him lightly on his free hand (the one that wasn't holding his coat) holding it for a moment between hers before letting go and turning, sparing the apartment around her once last glance.

She opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something, then shook her head and continued walking out the door. From the hallway she called, "I can give you five more minutes, but that's it!"

Wilson had never been more grateful for Cuddy's intuition.

This was his last opportunity to linger in everything that had been _him_.

He wasn't about to waste it.

His final goodbye...

...but there was nothing to say.

Everything that could have been said was said already, be it through words or actions or even feelings...except for one thing.

Two years had gone by and Wilson had not said it or even thought it. When it was spoken it made him flinch...but this apartment screamed it, snarled it, positively threw it in his face and _dared_ him to say it.

"House..."

There.

That was right, that was okay.

_Merry Christmas, you bastard..._

Somewhere in the back of his mind a snide voice commented, _"Yeah, Yeah. If you let any snot-nosed elementary brats get their grubby paws on it I'll kill you."_

…

_"__If you play it loud enough it keeps the demons at bay."_

_----------------------------------_

Merry Christmas, Goosey.

Love, Your (not so) Secret Santa!


End file.
